A dissident poet from Russia whispers to me
I whisper back
We smile. We depart
Soft pieces of ice pass between us
Sheets of wave cover us . . .
. . . but I wonder
Don't you think we had better forget
Both the Shah and Stalin, and let out
Grinding bones rest in peace?
Night is falling, tell me, or if you cannot,
Let's have another appointment,
Give our ankles another chance
To whisper each to each?
When Western writers speak of relationships, they do not generally mean the contact between anklebones; but perhaps, Baraheni and Doctorow suggest, that is the final relationship in a country where physical power is the only dynamic.
The Crowned Cannibals could not have been published in Iran; it is written for Americans, people accustomed to thinking of their nation as free of torture and repression. Baraheni's description of Iran shows the fallacy of that belief: our aid has supported the Shah throughout his regime, as our aid has supported so many other repressive regimes throughout the world since the end of World War II. If they do no more, works like Baraheni's should remind us of the price at which our freedom at home is purchased abroad.
